Frakkers
by dropdeadred
Summary: Laura considers the repetition of old patterns. Actually it's just smut.


_She knew how it would sound, if she ever were to try to say it out loud, ever to try to explain it to somebody, but Laura Roslin had never considered herself as fitting this role at all. The evidence to the contrary blew hot breath against her neck as she allowed her head to fall to the side, her eyes glazed and breath shallow. The sounds of his pleasure seemed distant to her in her reverie, the building tension low inside disconnected from the rough handling of the man who now pressed, now bumped her sharply into the wall supporting their encounter. She pushed vainly against him as he shuddered to his release, but he did not sense the hunger. Laura did not fool herself that he had at one time been a more attentive lover; no, she was the one changing._

When she had first met Richard Adar she had been impressed by the whole package. She knew it was the power that made her light of breath and eager to please, had recognized wholly the archetype they were playing out, but oh, it was delicious. How would she explain to anyone, even if there were such a person in her life, that by possessing this man she took ownership of a peculiar power of her own? How to explain the thrill of the danger, the pleasure in corruption, her wonder at her own sexual responses, so out of kilter with previous experience?

"_You're such a good girl, Laura."_

Laura checked herself. She closed her languorous mouth and replaced her glasses, hiding the hooded and dilated eyes that betrayed her memories of such pleasures. A soft cough from behind indicated the arrival of Billy, and she attempted to banish the remnants of her daydream and attend to business. And yet, for all she had determined upon and the promises she had made to herself in these last difficult years, her mind remained locked in explorations of needs and desires that both disturbed and titillated, and drove away any pretence of attentiveness to all but her sensual internal monologue this day.

Poor Billy, still in the grip of his trauma over her brush with death, did not hesitate to grant her request for rest, and Laura tried not to look apologetic as she squeezed his hand and accepted his assistance to her cabin. The truth was she felt stronger than she had in some time even before the cancer; but where she had made some sense of her experiences, there were those around her still struggling. Her own struggle had taken on a slightly different cast lately, and she was ashamed to be distracted from her work by it. It had been simple, when the colonies had fallen and this new life had been thrust upon her, to throw herself into the role, to accept responsibilities never before conceived of in magnitude, and to do so with grace and confidence. It had been a simple choice because it was the only one – they were all singular choices at first, driven by basic needs and rights, and all of it outlined by a perfectly finite amount of time. Knowing she was dying from the start gifted her the extraordinary ability of being able to always choose nobly. With a full life now stretching before her again, Laura was afraid she lacked the character to choose as she once had. Laura the human being, with her stunted prognosis, had been subsumed, almost consciously, by the office she accepted; but now she was faced with an extra responsibility - that to herself.

These insistent memories of President Adar were actually very little to do with Adar, she knew. A good book, fresh coffee, new clothes, these were personal needs she could take care of easily, but there were others that loomed and receded, always to return. Laura's need for,_companionship_, she put it delicately to herself, was following a predictably inconvenient path: that denied to us is desired all the more, a maddeningly simple and yet universal tenet. It wasn't Adar she craved, it was the connection, the sensation, the control and release, and yet she disliked the image of herself as she recalled those times. She couldn't separate the shame of her reduced position from the gratification of being desired so, because however she sliced it, her many adventures with the former President of the colonies were not amongst her favourite memories these days.

Laura did not sigh, nor pass a hand tiredly over her eyes; she did not partake of self-pity or frustration, as such things were not in her nature. She was, however, quite capable of a healthy exercising of denial. Stubbornness, she might prefer it to be called, when she recognized it, and this afternoon she did indeed recognize this coping mechanism. She recognized it failing quite spectacularly. A hotel room, a rumpled bed, afternoon sunlight through the crack in the curtains, an empty glass. Laura pressed her thighs together. Adar in the shower, Adar fixing his tie, Adar leaving her to check out alone so they would not be seen together. Like a lucid dream redirected by an unhappy sleeper, seamlessly the sense memory of him moving over her, hot dry flesh under her hands, became a new fantasy, one that Laura wished to repress even more vehemently than that of her playing the Other Woman in Adar's one-man show. _Bill Adama closing on her position, his face blurring with his proximity, her hands seized, pulled behind her, she marched backwards, this time the familiar bulkhead the welcome resting place for the tryst. A low growl resonates, and she allows his lips to apprehend her own, her tongue finding teeth and she feels her own tingle from the approaching critical mass of sensation._

"_Gods Laura."_

Laura fought the idea down. Was this the kind of relationship she would always seek? Where imbalance was prevalent, the satisfaction of one only achieved at the expense of the other, where the guiding principles were secrecy and scheming and always, always denial? A welling of sad anger brought a lump to her throat as she wished idly that what she really wanted could for once be something easy to reach out and take. No games, no collateral damage to consider, no uneven field, no power play.

"_Laura."_

She heard the graveled voice of her distracted visions and tried not to descend into fantasy; forcing her eyes open she was startled to see the object in fact standing before her.

"Laura?"

At first she could not answer.

"Are you alright?"

"I was resting." She rose stiffly from her recline, ignored the proffered hand and stood to face him, hoping against hope that her countenance had spoken of relaxation. "I'm fine."

The briefest expression of concern passed over his face, there and gone again, and Laura felt her knees weaken and despaired at her ability to ever be in a room with this man and not imagine his arms encircling her, him stealing her away to a dark rack somewhere.

"I can come back another time if this is inconvenient."

Laura's eyes narrowed as she considered.

"Did we have an appointment Bill? I'm sorry, I've been distracted all day, just can't seem to pay attention."

Bill's eyes narrowed in return. She knew there was no appointment.

A silence fell as they stood contemplating one another. Bill shifted from one foot to the other, hands crossed in front of him and Laura resisted the urge to fold her arms. He was looking tired and had a day's growth of beard texturing his face. The industrial lights in the cabin threw rugged shadow under his cheekbones and made his eyes dark and unreadable. She imagined the gritty softness of his facial hair and how it would feel against her own skin. Her head dropped forward and she sighed heavily.

As though he had sensed the failing resistance Bill took a step forward, his manner all concern. This time when he reached out a hand she gripped his arm tightly. No more games, no more secrets. She looked up and searched his face for a way in, for a suggestion of where to begin. All the sense and all the careful consideration in the universe seemed no match for the powerful imperative that threatened to have her throw herself at him and damn the consequences. No matter how far she thought she had come, Laura could only accept that she had no more than delayed the inevitable. She smirked unguardedly, and a small laugh rippled under the surface. Bill's face became a question mark, but she saw the hope there too.

Her hand on his arm loosened but did not release. The fabric of his uniform was rough and then his skin was smooth and warm as she took his hand and drew it up. In the moment of hesitation that followed, understanding passed in their locked gazes, wordless desire emanated from every contour that described their tangled position, so that by the time she pressed her face to his palm, both were beyond denial, and eager to press the boundaries of this new, shared comprehension. Laura felt her chest constrict in excitement as he took another step closer, and then both of his hands were framing her face, searching for a last excuse. She rose on the balls of her feet and tipped forwards.

The kiss had no pretensions to gentleness, his hands no fear of propriety, and Laura welcomed the attack. She pulled him to her, tighter, closer, wanting to absorb him entirely, his hands in her hair, now at her shoulders, now lower, pulling her onto his clearly eager frame. His fingers found the hem of her skirt as hers fumbled the buttons of his uniform, finding their way inside, insinuating her shaking hands into the hot undergarments. What kind of pleasure in denial, of treading a righteous path, could compare to such breath-stealing moments as these? When she felt the table at her back and was pushed to sit, overwhelmed she called for a momentary amnesty. Bill paused his attentions to her mouth but not her body.

"_Gods Laura,_" he rasped, at a complete loss for more coherent thought. His eyes did not lose hers for a second, as they reassured one another of their presence in the moment. He knew she wanted to see. For Laura, no words would come, but she was no more of a mind to stop this headlong rush than he. Their gaze held as he inched the skirt ever higher, her fingertips digging harder and harder into his shoulders as he exposed and dispensed of her underwear. As he freed himself of his own constraints she inched forward on the table and captured him with her legs. No further hesitations marked their encounter, and as he guided himself inside her she recaptured his mouth and pulled him close. As the kiss had ravished and tapered to tender concern, so his ministrations now took the reverse path, and Laura gloried in the all-consuming sensations that fired every nerve and neuron in her body. She keened his name breathlessly as she felt her climax upon her, felt him stutter as she leaned back, her face taking on the illusion of pain in the assault upon her pleasure centres.  
"Open your eyes." He demanded roughly, not breaking stride despite the scene before him. She obeyed and watched his expression churn with desire and the fight for control. When it came, she bit down on the cry that rolled upwards in her throat and rode out her orgasm in a tortured silence punctuated only by the sound of their laboured breathing. His superhuman strength flagged as he watched her face tense, freeze and dissolve, felt her melt around him, saw the satisfaction cloud her eyes. One, two, three more thrusts and he lurched, tipped over the edge, burying his face in her shoulder, growling low and long, unfettered and free.

Slowly Laura sank back, Bill following to lean over her, slow kisses and deep sighs, spasms of residual sexual frisson interrupting the slow descent to languor. At length he spoke, his voice rumbling against her:  
"So, would you like to have dinner tonight?"  
The laugh started small and grew to giggles, and she playfully batted him away as they both stiffly regained their upright positions. She leaned into his chest, relaxed into the embrace he offered. He smelled good.  
"I think I'd like that. I think I'd like that a lot."

fin


End file.
